


Tullamore Dew

by rusting_roses



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-05
Updated: 2010-12-05
Packaged: 2017-10-22 20:25:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/242233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rusting_roses/pseuds/rusting_roses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is drunk. John just tries to keep him from destroying the flat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tullamore Dew

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little fic that I wrote for the [](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/profile)[**sherlockbbc_fic**](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/)...but I can't find the original prompt. However, it asked for drunk!Sherlock, so that's what I went with :)

John hated getting calls from Mrs Hudson.

Getting calls from Mrs Hudson meant that she was hearing explosions. Getting calls from Mrs Hudson meant that acid was eating through her ceiling. Getting calls from Mrs Hudson meant that there were intestines on the kitchen table. And on one particularly memorable occasion, getting a call from Mrs Hudson had meant that the there was a dead piglet out in the hallway, and John, dear, you really shouldn't let him get into this state, because you know how he is...

So John felt it was perfectly acceptable that he hated getting calls from Mrs Hudson.

He answered them anyways, because he'd always been a good sort of bloke, the kind that women could take home and his mates could rely on, the kind that couldn't stand it when people were hurt and had a way of making himself understood. He answered the calls because Mrs Hudson really ought to be ordained a saint, considering everything she put up with from her tenants, and John had always been taught that you were supposed to help the elderly, not harass them. Besides, Mrs Hudson was always there with a spot of tea and a listening ear and a warm smile, and John owed her, really, for contacting him when Sherlock was one of his black moods so John could (hopefully) distract him from it.

When he came racing up to the flat, thrust his key into the door and flung it open, however, he thought a tad despairingly that he was _not_ paid enough to do this.

There was music. It was loud. It was not rock, nor pop, nor jazz or blues, but classical concertos being blasted at top volume out of a set of speakers John hadn't known they owned. It was a version of Vivaldi's Storm that had been given a techno beat in the background, which is almost sickeningly appropriate considering that the flat looked like even more of a disaster area than usual.

There were several pieces of glassware sitting out. They were filled with mysterious liquids. The three Erlenmeyer flasks held liquids that were in neon colours, the kind that people named "bio-hazard orange" or "toxic waste green" for a reason. Of the additional four beakers, also in varying colours, only one looked familiar. In it was an amber liquid. It was made more familiar when John saw a bottle, about half empty, of Tullamore Dew sitting directly behind it. Of course, because this is Sherlock, it couldn't have been _just_ be a bottle of Tullamore Dew—it's their Twelve Year Old Special Reserve, the kind of whisky that has _earned_ the capitol letters.

There was something burnt in the kitchen. It was practically cemented to the pan that had been used. John didn't know what it was, but he suspected from the burnt exteriors that at one point in their lives they'd been frozen chips, the kind you just stuck into the oven for twenty minutes or so and they'd be ready. However, from their still-smoking carcasses, Sherlock had lost track of the time...for a very, very long time. John didn't even know chips could _look_ like charcoal briquettes. The only companion to the poor abused chips are a set of pancakes that have decorated pretty much every part of the stove except the pan itself.

And for the pièce de résistance, of course, Sherlock came wandering into the kitchen where John stood, shell-shocked, juggling three containers of...alright, John didn't know _what_ they were, and from the sloshing around, he— _oh dear lord had that been an eyeball_?

But no, now was not the time to get distracted. "Sherlock," he ordered sharply, attempting to shut up the litany of _Oh, God,_ running through the back of his mind and attempting to quell the amusement that couldn't help bubbling up because of the sheer sureality of it all, "tell me you are not drunk."

Sherlock neatly caught all three jars without even a hint of a fumble. "I'm not drunk." Sherlock looked at him, and if it weren't for the high flush across his cheeks, and the fact that Sherlock's movements were not quite as sharp as normal—and, of course, if he hadn't come across the bottle—John would have believed him. He couldn't even detect a hint of a slur, though that may have been explained by the fact that Sherlock had spoken to him as though he was child of below average intelligence.

John closed his eyes, and asked any deity for patience. Anyone at all. Or, if they didn't choose to grant patience and they were feeling merciful, they could just strike him down with lightening. When no lightening _and_ no patience came, John opened his eyes.

"You're drunk." he asked simply.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Of course I'm drunk," he told John, raising an eyebrow. And there—now that he wasn't speaking to John like the doctor was an infant, there was a hint of a slur in his normally precise voice.

John covered his face, because it was either laugh or cry at what his life had become. He choose to laugh and collapsed in one of the kitchen chairs as Sherlock began to juggle again, going so far as to do tricks like turning with the jars, or throwing them in different patterns. "Occasionally," Sherlock said in a conversational tone, as though this was perfectly normal behaviour, "I take it upon myself to re-evaluate how many drinks I can have before I entertain the notion of performing the same drunken shenanigans as the rest of the boring individuals out there."

John's laughter, which had been dying down, started up again at the word, "shenanigans," spoken in a tone of deep and lasting derision. Sherlock simply continued to speak over him, "It is an occasional test that ensures that when I am out on a case, I know exactly where my limits are, and what level of alcohol I can drink before my faculties are...compromised. To that end, I test myself with both mental and physical exercises." The song changed, and Sherlock said promptly, "The 1975 performance of George Gershwin's Rhapsody in Blue by the London Symphony Orchestra."

"I hope you know," John said, laughter finally calming, "that I have no idea if you're right."

Sherlock huffed a breath, but then lost track of the jars, one slipping from his grip. If John hadn't been waiting for it since the moment Sherlock had first started juggling those damned jars, it would have crashed against the floor, spewing its contents of dubious origin. Something squelched when John caught it, and he had to swallow to keep from making some very unappealing gagging noises. He didn't normally have a strong gag reflex, especially not after what he'd seen during his time both as a doctor and as a soldier, but Sherlock had a talent for testing those limits daily.

"I think that's the end of your testing," John said evenly, though he couldn't help a small grin breaking out. "I think that's also my cue for me to get you into bed."

"Hardly!" Sherlock declared, setting the jars on the table with surprising steadiness. "I'm not _that_ drunk yet. Have a glass of whisky, John." With that, he sauntered over to the pan on the stove and picked up some of the half-cooked pancake sitting inside. He popped it into his mouth, chewed thoughtfully, and announced, "Disgusting. John, I think perhaps you need to order takeaway, because there is no food in the fridge."

"What? I just went shopping the other day!"

"Yes, well." That, of course, explained nothing, and John decided it was best not to ask. Sherlock walked carefully back over to the various liquids in the various beakers, and he picked up the neon orange one and downed the entire thing in one go before John could stop him.

"What was in that?" John asked nervously, picking up the rest of the beakers before Sherlock could get his hands on them and dumping them all down the sink. He'd rather have whatever was in them eat away at their pipes than Sherlock's stomach lining.

"I don't really remember," Sherlock mused. "I think there was formaldehyde in it at one point."

" _What_?"

"No, not formaldehyde."

John let out a sigh of relief, slumping against the table.

"Oh! No, I was correct the first time."

" _Sherlock_!"

Sherlock ignored the exclamation, and made his way back in the main room. John resolutely ignored the sounds coming from the other room as he rinsed the glassware; if Sherlock decided to use it for either another experiment—or another drink—at least it would be reasonably clean.

Then he heard the books crash down.  
John raced out in the main room, where the music way still blaring, and wondered, for a moment, if he was hallucinating.

Sherlock had toed off his socks as well as his shoes and was standing rather precariously on top of the table, swaying back and forth as Kesha's Tik Tok filled the room. John hadn't even known that Sherlock realized popular music _existed_ , let alone listened to it. "Ain't got no money in my pocket, but I'm already here!" Sherlock sang. He had a surprisingly warm baritone, a little off key, but the enthusiasm was there. Yes, that was a kindly way of putting it. Enthusiasm. "And now the dudes are lining up, cause they hear we got swagger, but we kick 'em to the curb unless they look like Mick Jagger!"

John couldn't help looking up at Sherlock, the knowledge that he was probably going to spend what was left of his evening hurrying after Sherlock, trying to prevent him from accidentally blowing himself up or something, and asking, "Do you even know who Mick Jagger is?"

"Of course I know!" Sherlock said, affronted. John never found out if that was the case, however, because Sherlock stepped too close to the edge of the table and promptly slipped off, eyes going comically wide as he fell. He groaned from the floor, looking dazed, while John rushed over to his aid.

"Sherlock?" he asked, already checking him over.

"Just bruised," Sherlock grunted. He peered rather blearily up at John. "I know you don't actually have a twin, so if you could stop swaying like that, I'd greatly appreciate it." John took that as a sign of reasonably good faculties, all things considered, and decided it would be best if they all simply called it a night. Leaving Sherlock with one hand over his eyes, still taking a general stab at the lyrics of Tik Tok, John went and stoppered the whisky bottle, tidied up the kitchen a little more, including putting the pan of burnt crisps and pancakes in to soak and clearing away the worst of the batter, and then, finally, turned off the music.

Sherlock continued warbling for a few moments, before stopping, sitting up abruptly, and blinking. "Do you feel ill?" John asked warily. Sherlock was tall enough and heavy enough that depending on how fast those whiskies were drunk, he would either vomit now or sleep it off.

"The music stopped!" Sherlock said, with some surprise.

"I thought that if I let it go too much longer, Mrs Hudson would come up and hold pillows over our faces until we stop moving," John said pragmatically. "She's the one that called me here in the first place, you know."

"Good woman, Mrs Hudson," Sherlock agreed. He was rather wobbly, and John had to help him up and into his bedroom; they narrowly missed the doorframe because John wasn't accustomed to aiding someone so much taller than himself. He left on Sherlock's clothing, because God knew the man slept in them often enough, and pulled up the covers.

John went to get Sherlock a glass of water and brought it back in for the consulting detective to drink. He'd stay up for another couple of hours, checking in on Sherlock to make sure there were no adverse effects of his little drinking experiment before going to bed himself. John thought he'd be okay; certainly John himself had been worse drunk more than once in his life.

"Hmmm," Sherlock said just as John was about to leave. "This is much better than normal. Usually I don't make it to the bed." He wiggled his toes; John could see the movement of the blanket.

"Talk to me in the morning," John told him, "and see if you feel the same way."

Sherlock hummed again, and John turned off the lights, mostly closing the door to Sherlock's room and going back to the main room, turning the telly on low enough that he'd be able to hear it if Sherlock vomited or something equally unpleasant as the alcohol worked through his system. He debated not bringing in tea and the hangover recipe his grandmother swore by in the morning, and then consoled himself that Sherlock had done it for science. He'd certainly done stranger things in the name of it.

Besides, it would make Sherlock owe him one, and he had plans for the latter half of that Tullamore Dew.


End file.
